Fantasy Football Widows Just Need A Chance. If They Want One, That Is.

As we take time over the next couple of weeks to prepare for our drafts, let’s pause for a moment to honor the fantasy football widows across America.

La dee dahhh. Dooo dee dah dah.

OK, that’s enough.

Being realistic as possible and having gone through many a season as a married man, I know I will soon pay (as will most of you) for those Sundays filled with biting nails, screaming obscenities at the television and slamming coffee-table books to the ground in disgust.

I’d like to say they just don’t understand … well they don’t understand … but some of us do get a little nuts. It’s reached the point at my house where if my widow, er, wife doesn’t have something better to do somewhere else, she’ll lock herself in our room for six hours.

And of course, every Monday night, she’ll sigh and say, “Do we really have to watch this %^#@?”

“But honey, it’s the Raiders and Chiefs, and Dwayne Bowe needs to score 10.”

Well, I’m turning over a new leaf. No, I’ll still cuss and slam things and do all of those loud things I’ve always done, but I’m going to try and get her excited about it, too.

Shouldn’t be too tough a sell. I mean she said she always loved football before I ruined it.

In fact, my most vivid moment of the minute or so before Garrett Hartley made pigs fly with that nifty little kick in the NFC title game a few years back (I’m a Saints’ fan, obviously) is my wife sitting on the edge of the sofa praying the rosary that yes, the Saints, the New Orleans Saints would make it to the Super Bowl.

I think when it was over she consumed more adult beverages than any other at the after party down the street. So I know she cared.

Let’s see how tough this job actually will be.

“Hey honey, I’m working on a little project. Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

“Sure.”

“OK, first, do you know who Vernon Davis is?”

“Name rings a bell. Is he a politician?”

“Um, no.”

“Well, who is he?”

“He plays tight end for the 49ers.”

“Oh, you’re doing this for the blog. OK, ask me another one.”

“OK, Aaron Rodgers.”

“Well, he’s gotta be an athlete. … He plays for the Dodgers?”

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. There has to be a way to get her excited about this whole thing.

I even bought her a spot in the suicide pool, the one where you pick a different NFL team every week but you can’t pick the same one twice. She won the first year, made me feel stupid and cursed me the next two years because she asked me for advice twice … and figure out the rest of the story.

Even then, she’d leave the house, come back about 4 p.m. and ask me if her team had won. I’d say yes, she’d say, “OK, good,” and head back into the bedroom, telling me to let her know when “this football crap” was over.

I’m running out of ideas here.

So I just decided to ask her straight up, “What would it take for you to get more excited about football?” But as I was set to do just that, I realized I was petrified at what the answer might be.

Guess I’ll have to come up with something next year. I’m a little busy at the moment. Have to get those keepers in.